


Knockout

by bananaquit



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: College Fiddauthor, Fiddauthor Week, M/M, fiddauthor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 07:55:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11619255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananaquit/pseuds/bananaquit
Summary: Poor eyesight, a sleepless night, a banjo, and a big mistake.





	Knockout

**Author's Note:**

> For fiddauthor week day 4: awkwardness/crushing

Ford let out a groan and pushed his glasses up his face. He rubbed his fingers under his eyes and grabbed the nearest coffee cup, bringing it up to his mouth before remembering it was empty. He threw it toward the wastebasket and missed as usual. Giving a sigh, he leaned back in his chair, unintentionally rolling away from his desk a little. His slight movement caused him to bump into one of the stacks of books piled around him. His eyes widened in horror as the tower began to tumble over. There was no time to do anything but watch as the tomes crashed down on his roommate, who was slumbering on the bed beside his desk.

Fiddleford jolted awake, shoved books off of himself, and sat up. His gaze flickered between the books and Ford, quickly connecting the dots. “Goddamnit, Stanford! It’s two in the morning! ‘Ya told me you’d go to sleep three hours ago!”

“I know, I know, but I’m on a roll writing this paper. I have to get it done tonight so I don’t lose my thoughts. Sorry I woke you up.”

“If you were really sorry, you’d be sleeping!” Fiddleford flung another book to the ground.

“Hey, be careful with those. They’re library books.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about the fucking book! Just _go to sleep!_ ”

Ford rested his cheek on his hand and exhaled. He didn’t have time for this. “Come over here and make me.” he mumbled in a half-teasing but exhausted tone, turning back to his work.

A playful smirk materialized on Fiddleford’s face. Even his drowsiness couldn’t outweigh his appetite for mischief. “Alright then, you asked for it.” Fiddleford shed his covers and wiggled his bare toes. His legs were buried in the folds of his gray sweatpants, but his white tank top clung to his frame, so much so that Ford could see his ribs through the fabric when he inhaled and stretched his arms above his head. Fiddleford grabbed his banjo from where it leaned against the bed frame and stood up, the wiry yet strong muscles in his thin arms visibly flexing under his skin.

Ford watched him, noticing the way the shadows shifted over his slim form as he moved. His single desk lamp highlighted the gentle curve of Fiddleford’s cheeks, the tops of his shoulders, the small, rounded pocket of pudge just above his hips. Stray hairs stuck out every which way, a side-effect of his messy, uncombed bedhead. The corners of his mouth tugged just slightly upward under his eyes... those baby blue eyes, now fully visible in absence of his glasses, captivating and stunning and beauti-

“Reckon it’s time to end your reign of terror, Pines.” Fiddleford’s voice snapped Ford out of his trance. “I’m the dominant male around here, and you ain’t pullin’ another all-nighter on my watch. Go to bed.” Fiddleford declared triumphantly, puffing out his chest and propping his banjo on his shoulder.

“And what if I refuse?” Ford teased, cracking a sly smile.

“Then you get- _the banjo_.” Fiddleford grinned madly and struck an uneasy minor chord as he loomed closer step by step, strumming rapidly for dramatic effect.

Ford giggled. “I’m _terrified_.”

“You’d better be! I’ll hit! I’ll hit ‘ya!” Fiddleford brandished the instrument like a bat and swung it just above Ford’s head, deliberately missing. Ford ducked and covered his head with his hands, chuckling.

“Looks like you missed me, McGucket.” Stanford spoke, a devilish twinkle in his eye and one brow raised. “How are you going to enforce that consequence if you can’t even land a blow?”

“That was just a warm-up swing to give ‘ya a warning. This time I won’t go so easy on you!” Fiddleford swung again, aiming to miss as before- and connected the banjo directly with the side of Ford’s head, _hard_.

 _“Shit!”_ Fiddleford screamed. He threw his banjo to the side and reached out with his arms to catch Ford before he could fall out of his chair. Ford fell limply into his arms, unconscious. Fiddleford swore and cursed his poor eyesight, wishing he’d had the forethought to put on his spectacles before engaging in what was _supposed_ to be harmless banter. He set Ford on the carpet and leaned him against the bed frame, then dropped to his knees beside him.

He bit his lip and stared at his friend, the guilt eating him alive. He’d _hurt_ him. Not intentionally, of course, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t feel bad about it. A bruise was already blossoming beside Ford’s ear, fat and purple and ugly. Fiddleford took a few deep breaths and pulled out a bit of his own hair, not even realizing he was doing it. “Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry.” he whispered, removing the hand from his hair and sliding it into Ford’s. Ford’s hair was thick, fluffy, and soothing against his slightly trembling fingers. It was soft, too. Fiddleford hadn’t realized how _soft_ it was before now. He toyed gently with Ford’s brown curls in an attempt to reassure himself, running his fingers softly through in a calming, repetitive motion. His hand drifted down to Ford’s chin and traced it slowly, fingertips brushing his skin just slightly.

His breath caught in his throat a bit when he realized what he was doing was more than a little weird. He returned his hand to his knee and tapped his fingers anxiously against his pant leg, hoping his breathing would even out. He focused on the slow rise and fall of Ford’s chest underneath his pale yellow button-up and tried to match his breathing, eventually syncing his own lungs with rhythm of Ford’s. Fiddleford smiled at his friend. Ford was always a help, even when he didn’t realize it. He was there to calm him when he panicked, to listen to his anxiety-induced rants, to lay a gentle hand on his shoulder, to embrace him when he was shaking. It was a blessing, really, to have such an amazing mind as his friend. Ford thought his machines were fascinating and his ideas were interesting. He didn’t dismiss them like so many others. Fiddleford wondered if it was selfish that he was glad Ford had ended up at Backupsmore instead of West Coast Tech.

Somehow, at some point, Ford had become his rock, the one thing that seemed real in the rapidly spinning world, mad and whirling and moving so quickly. Hearing his voice was something Fiddleford looked forward to every day, and his soft smile warmed his soul in a very peculiar but very pleasant way. Ford provided something that his other friends didn’t, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what made him so different. Unconditional respect, endless conversation, the fact that Ford thought his vernacular was an amusing quirk rather than something to snicker at...

Unsaid feelings whirred tensely through him as he stared at Ford’s closed eyelids and slightly parted lips- just natural concern and friendly feelings of love, he assured himself, all platonic in nature. Platonic, of course, if you didn’t count the daydreams about kissing him and holding hands and waking up snuggled against him and- alright, so it wasn’t exactly “platonic”.

But the feeling wasn’t reciprocated, right? It didn’t seem that way. Ford was fairly focused on his work, and he’d made his opinion about romantic relationships clear several times- they were unnecessary, a waste of time. The way he scoffed at the couples they passed on the way to class showed his open scorn for the idea of romance in no uncertain terms… but if that was true, why did it always seem like Ford was staring at him when he thought he didn’t notice? Perhaps it was Fiddleford’s subconsciousness twisting reality in his pathetic desperation. Or maybe it wasn’t that Ford hated the idea of romance, Fiddleford reasoned, it was just that he was confused by it. It was something Ford never imagined for himself, Fiddleford thought. Fiddleford really wanted to believe the stupid love stories he played out in his head were actually feasible, but maybe not. Maybe the blush that crept across Ford’s cheeks whenever they got close was just an optical illusion, maybe the special way Fiddleford imagined that Ford looked at him from time to time was nothing at all, fabricated entirely by his stupid, lovesick mind.

It was funny, though, the way Ford had laid his hand on top of his just the day before, when Fiddleford had finally finished rambling about his anxiety over midterms, which were approaching in a few weeks. Fiddleford had been apologizing for wasting his time, stammering and shaking and tripping over his words. Ford had kept his hand there, fingertips brushing his trembling knuckles, looked into his eyes with that warm gaze that Fiddleford’s mind liked to pretend meant something meaningful, and told him “You’re never a waste of my time”.

Then again, homosexuality was a sin. His parents made sure he knew that growing up. Now that Fiddleford thought about it, though, a lot of things were sins. In fact, he sinned on a daily basis, so really, what was the big deal? What was one more nail in his coffin of poor decisions and flawed morals? He was going to hell anyway. He couldn’t risk losing Ford, though, so it would all remain unsaid. Fiddleford’s hands twitched and fidgeted as he sat there and stared at Ford.

A foolish, illogical impulse had began to take root in his mind. It scratched repeatedly at his brain, much to his annoyance. Kissing his unconscious friend was neither an ethically nor socially acceptable thing to do, so he wouldn’t do it, but... he might never get to otherwise. Ford wouldn’t know. It’d be fine. Fiddleford’s impulse control suddenly vanished. He leaned forward and pressed his lips softly against Ford’s, then pulled away after a moment with a tiny smile.

When he opened his eyes, he found Ford staring back at him.

“Fiddleford?” Ford’s eyes were wide with confusion and shock, his voice high and strained.

 _“Fuck!”_ Fiddleford screeched as panic instantly overtook him. Before his brain could catch up with his body, he grabbed his banjo and whacked Ford in the head again, creating a twin bruise on the other side of his face and knocking him out cold once more. Fiddleford spewed a number of curses and apologies. “You’ve really tarred it up now, Fiddleford.” he muttered. He put his face in his hands.

Fiddleford waited anxiously as the minutes ticked by. He pulled out more of his hair, littering the carpet. Would Ford remember? What would he say if he did? Would he hate him? Questions swirled in his brain, but no answers came. He let out a breath and sat with his legs criss-crossed on the floor, one knee bouncing anxiously.  It seemed like forever before Ford stirred again.

“Fidds?” Ford groaned. He reached up to rub at his head with his hand, flinching at the pain.

Fiddleford launched into apologies. “I’m really sorry, Stanford. I didn’t mean to hit you, I promise, I was just kinda discoordinated, I’d never hurt ‘ya on purpose, I-”

Ford waved his hand and cut off his rapid rambling. “Fine, fine. It’s fine, Fiddleford, I forgive you.” Ford paused and adjusted his glasses. Then his eyebrows raised as something clicked in his brain. “You- did you _kiss_ me?” he asked directly, wasting no time in getting right to the point.

The tone of Ford’s voice set Fidds on edge. “No, of course not! Why on Earth would I do that? I think that hit may have messed up your head a little, you’re just talking nonsense now.” Fiddleford replied, his voice cracking.

Ford frowned and sat in silence for a few moments. “No, I definitely remember that…” He trailed off into a brief but thoughtful silence before the realization seemed to finally sink in. “You _did_ , didn’t you? What the… what the _fuck_ , Fiddleford?” Ford wasn’t sure how he felt about it, to be frank. The only emotion he could discern at the moment was alarm.

“Okay, I did! I’m sorry! I-I-I’m sorry, just… _God_ … just please don’t hate me.” Fiddleford stared at the floor. He stiffened as Ford put a hand on his shoulder, then reached out with his other hand and grabbed one of his. Fiddleford’s eyes snapped up.

“Woah, woah. Fidds, I don't hate you. Calm down, don’t freak out. It’s okay.” Ford spoke, his voice level. Fiddleford’s breathing was fast and shallow, but with the steady hand on his shoulder and Ford’s six fingers gripping his, it began to even out. “Just breathe, okay? I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Though Stanford was still a bit shaken about the whole thing, Fiddleford was his friend, first and foremost. In the time he’d known Fiddleford, he’d learned what a friend was and what friendship meant. Being a friend meant a lot, really. It meant laughter and excited rambling and conversations that carried on for hours into the night. It meant debates and discussions of a fascinating nature. It entailed many ups and downs, from congratulating one another on a job well done to helping each other through panic attacks and breakdowns. He realized that Fiddleford meant more than anything to him, more than he could put into words.

Now that Fiddleford’s breathing had evened out, Ford relaxed slightly. An uncomfortable silence settled over the pair as they each tried to work out what to say next. Ford could hear his heart beating in his ears for some strange reason. His face flushed as he realized their hands were still clasped together. Ford drew his clammy hand back and tried to collect his thoughts. He tried to identify what he was feeling, sifting through his thoughts for any discernible emotion. He expected to find shock, and it was definitely there, but it seemed to be overwhelmed by… happiness? Though he was startled by the realization, he felt good about the whole thing, even if he didn’t want to.

Fiddleford tugged at his hair anxiously. He opened his mouth to speak when Ford suddenly cut in. “It was nice,” Ford blurted. He looked away after the words escaped his mouth, a nervous smile and a bright blush upon his face.

Fiddleford blinked blankly at him, not sure he’d heard correctly. “Re-really?”

“Well, I mean, I could’ve done without being knocked out, bu-”

Fiddleford suddenly put a hand on either side of his face, grabbed his cheeks, and pulled Ford toward him as he leaned closer… only to smash their noses together and knock foreheads accidentally. Ford sputtered and rubbed at his nose.

“Sorry!” Fiddleford cried, his eyes widening. He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “Just got a little excited there.”

Ford snorted, hiding his face with a hand. “Want to try that again?” he asked, a tiny glimmer of hope in his eyes.

Fiddleford nodded. Both shy and unsure, they leaned closer again, tilting their heads to avoid bumping noses again. They awkwardly pressed their lips together, letting them linger there for a moment. Fiddleford tasted like tobacco and Ford tasted like ink, but strangely, neither of them minded. Ford sat back against the bed, folded his arms, and looked away. He straightened his posture and drew in a breath as if to collect himself before glancing nervously back at Fiddleford. Fiddleford offered him a tiny smile and scooted up next to him, where he leaned against him and joined their hands. Ford tensed slightly, but smiled back at him. “Fiddleford?”

“Y-yeah?”

“I, um- I like you. A lot.”

Fiddleford let out a tiny giggle and buried his nose in Ford’s arm. “I like ‘ya too." He closed his eyes as Ford let his muscles relax, his exhale of relief bringing a calm silence to the room. As Ford began to get used to the feeling of Fiddleford’s fingers between his, he closed his eyes, wondering how on Earth he’d been lucky enough to stumble across Fiddleford, grateful that somebody so amazing was the one man crazy enough to care about him. "Now how about we hit the hay, hmm? Been an interesting night, think we could both use some rest.”

Ford let out a sigh. "Fine," he breathed, rolling his eyes and turning to crawl into bed. Fiddleford joined him and Ford blinked at the other in surprise. "Oh. You wa-"

"You're in _my_ bed, buddy." Fiddleford smirked at him. 

"Sorry." Ford flushed. His mind must have mixed up the beds in his exhaustion. He started to clamber off the bed when Fiddleford gently stopped him.

"You can stay. Just get some sleep, alright?" Fidds whispered, tone soft and sweet. Ford couldn't help but obey. He lied down beside his friend and simply hoped he wasn't drenching the poor man's sheets in sweat as he listened to the sound of his heart pounding in his ears. Fiddleford plucked Ford's glasses from his face and set them on the bedside table. He turned out the light and settled back under the covers. Ford was aware of how close the two were together on the tiny bed. "Do me a favor and take a shower in the morning?" Fiddleford murmured teasingly. "You _reek_."

Ford fidgeted his legs beneath the blanket. "If I had known we were going to end up-"

"Hush now," Fiddleford spoke. "You been awake long enough. Good night, Ford."

Ford closed his eyes, the paper he'd been working on lying forgotten on his desk. "Good night, Ford."


End file.
